


Keeping Tabs

by acaseofthehiccups, FriendshipCastle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, an excuse to write about heaven's cataloguing practices vs. hell's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19470886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaseofthehiccups/pseuds/acaseofthehiccups, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendshipCastle/pseuds/FriendshipCastle
Summary: A juxtaposition of Heaven's archive of Aziraphale's miracles compared with the sadly lacking state of Hell's temptation logs.





	1. Heaven

Pravuil pushed a hand into her thick, curly hair, which dislodged a couple of pencils and a piece of label tape that read ‘KIRAMAN KATABIN - ST-SU (1200-1210).’ The text shifted from English to Arabic as she squinted at it. She’d had to retype the label when she realized she’d misspelled ‘katibin.’ She dropped the tape scrap into one of the conveniently-placed wastepaper baskets against the nearest bookshelf and adjusted her pince-nez, striding deeper into the looming stacks of crackling paper, tomes, and manila folders.

With Heaven’s adoption of smartphones in the early 2000s, her job as Angel of Records had gotten unnervingly easy. There was a program to record miracles that angels performed on Earth, and the _kiraman katibin_ reports had moved to an entirely digital format as well. She liked her records, though. It wasn’t very modern of her, and someone would probably vanish her files away at some point without her noticing, but until then, Pravuil had a massive backlog that she could finally work on sorting while her oh-so-thin computer hummed away at her desk. In the earlier days, she’d done it all by hand; the _kiraman katibin_ had sent in daily deed figures to add to each human’s personal record, requests for location-based sin reports were regular and urgent, and she’d been chucking scribbled miracle receipts from hundreds of principalities into the nearest files she could grab. Those paper scraps with the date, subject, and purpose of each miracle were still turning up in unlikely crawlspaces. 

What a lovely time that had been. Pravuil had been a snarling wreck in an ink-stained toga, her wings rumpled and grimy, and she’d been so fucking happy to have an excuse to snap at people who asked her for things. Now she got an emailed request and all she needed to do was run the right report on her computer and send over the figures people asked for. It was so impersonal—angels didn’t even come to visit her now. None of the knee-quaking approach of her towering, dark-wood desk, no dominions wetting themselves when she glared over her lenses at them and barked out, “Well? Spit it out! I’m a busy archangel, you know!” They gazed with bewildered terror at her neat row of small, unopened bottles of glue, the _cinquedea_ that she liked to use to pin finished requests to her desk, her snowglobe depicting a cactus in sunglasses that declared it was from Arizona.

Being an archangel technically only put her above guardian angels in the Heavenly pecking order, but even seraphim had to come to her if they had questions about matters on Earth. The rare times a throne had come to ask about the godliness of a certain person or population, she’d had an answer to give. And then the Earth would burn or flood or freeze, or a human would transfigure into something excitingly unlikely. Knowledge was power, history was power, and records were power that could, with proper analysis, create some awesome results.

She’d had minions, once. In-house minions, that is; she still had all the _kiraman katibin_ and guardian angels in the field sending her reports, but there had been a few angels she could direct around the archives to help her collect relevant documents.

And then it had all gotten a bit… messy.

Pravuil’s foot hit an abandoned inkwell. Chunks of dried ink flew off deeper into the maze of shelves. The inkwell pinged off yet another towering filing cabinet.

“Goal,” Pravuil muttered to herself. Hockey was filling the void in her time lately. She didn’t understand any of it, but the smooth white floor reminded her of the halls of Heaven, and she liked to imagine her fellow angels careening around and slamming into each other like the bulky humans did. It looked fun in a way that no one else she worked with would find fun.

She was the sole angel in the Earth Archives now. She’d lost her team due to an inability to delegate and a refusal to tolerate incompetence.

> _Seh rubbed the golden bridge of their nose like they had a headache as Pravuil glared at them. “Uhhh, the catalog said that the record is in box 3,596 in our special collections but, as far as I remember, boxes 2,827 through 3,613 were moved to a pocket dimension during the last renovation to install shelving and we haven't been able to find them since.”_
> 
> _“Who made the dimension?”_
> 
> _“Cambriel.”_
> 
> _“Cambriel? He’s got his head in the blessed clouds all the time, why’d you let him do that?”_
> 
> _Seh raised their hands defensively. “I didn’t let him! Penemue told him to put them somewhere while we stacked the Mesopotamian archives—”_
> 
> _“I’ll find it, shut up,” Pravuil reached out a hand and breathed deep until she could smell the tang of records lost. Seh flapped their wings frantically to get out of the way as nearly 800 boxes began to stack themselves up._
> 
> _“Ah, there it is—” Seh began, swooping in when they saw the box they needed._
> 
> _“Tell Cambriel and Penemue they’re reassigned.”_
> 
> _Seh pulled up short, wings snapping to keep them hovering. “What?”_
> 
> _“In fact, all three of you are reassigned. Find different assignments. Talk to Uriel. Or Sandalphon, I don’t care. Get out of my archives.”_
> 
> _“What? I, I didn’t—”_
> 
> _“Get OUT!” Pravuil roared, and all the papyrus behind her, and the stone tablets, and the whispers that had been passed down for generations, began to shudder and scream. Seh fled, dodging a few of the more vicious scrolls leaping for their wings. Pravuil glared at the wide-eyed assistant who had just stepped around the corner of the shelves. “What do you want?”_
> 
> _“Um. Well, Archivist, we, uh.” She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders under her jeogori and smoothing her chima with her free hand. “You know those folios you wanted?”_
> 
> _“Is this bad news?”_
> 
> _The assistant—Kochab—didn’t answer, but looked down at her clipboard and continued. “We HAD two copies of those folios but they... somehow... got... misplaced?”_
> 
> _“Misplaced?” Pravuil snorted her annoyance. “Should we find Cambriel? Another pocket dimension cock-up, or—?”_
> 
> _“No, Archivist!” Kochab said quickly._
> 
> _“Then how in Heaven do you misplace a folio, they’re very large!”_
> 
> _Jeqon glided up, out of breath and triumphant, with a wodge of paper under one arm. “Archivist Pravuil, I found those octavos you were looking for! Someone put five of them in a quarto folder and catalogued it under a completely different call number, but I thought about—”_
> 
> _“You! All of you!” Pravuil sent her voice to every corner of the Earthly archives and howled, “ALL OF YOU, GET OUT OF MY ARCHIVE!”_
> 
> _There was a shocked silence. Then a rustle of wings, the murmur of voices, trailing away as her useless subordinates filed out._
> 
> _“Where… where should we go, Archivist?” Jeqon asked timidly._
> 
> _Pravuil pulled the octavos from their hands. “I don’t care. Talk to the Alpha Centauri Archivist, maybe. You, Jeqon, are pretty good at records, and I’ll say as much if Gadreel asks. Kochab, you’d do better in the prophecy department. I just… Leave, now. Please. I’ll do it all myself.”_

Pravuil blinked and looked around, reorienting herself in time. There were even more shelves than there had been back then, but the silence was echoing instead of bustling. It had been centuries since she’d taken over archiving alone. It was better this way—one record-keeper who was also in charge of finding all the records when you needed them. With the computer thing, though... 

Ahead of her, still with ink powder on its lowest drawer from where she’d kicked the inkwell, was a gleaming filing cabinet. This stood out, as most of the filing cabinets were dull, dusty, and starting to rust. It wasn’t as forgotten as the others. Pravuil narrowed her eyes. There was a faint whispering from the bottom drawer, a susurrus of paper-on-paper. She crouched and pulled the drawer out.

A receipt-sized piece of paper, neatly typed on an old-fashioned typewriter, finished materializing in the frontmost folder. The drawer was about half-full. A tidy handwritten label declared that the front folder contained ‘Aziraphale, 2000- ’ and the one behind it, in the same hand, read ‘Aziraphale, 1980-1999.’

“Oh shit,” Pravuil said. She picked up the filing cabinet (here, where her personal piece of Heaven was so close to her state of mind, she could decide how space and mass applied) and speed-walked back to her desk, hauling centuries, _millennia_ of miracle receipts up into better light. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

She set the cabinet down among her clutter of Mardi Gras beads, empty plant pots, clumps of wire, and dented tea strainers (her coworkers brought her back Earthly items they thought would amuse her, which she enjoyed without understanding at all). As she pulled out a stack of this millennia’s folders, she saw a note clipped to the folder that read ‘Aziraphale, 1845-1850’ This folder was noticeably fatter than all of the subsequent folders, and covered far fewer Earth years. She frowned and picked up the note.

The handwriting she recognized as belonging to Atid, one of the co-leaders of the _kiraman katibin_. The note read, ‘A. is wasting miracles! Frivolous!’

“Hm,” Pravuil said, and then asked the filing cabinet, “What were my office’s last communications with the principality Aziraphale?” 

The cabinet shivered and spat out a memo she vaguely remembered writing. It was a copy of the notice sent to the person committing the infraction, and she smiled as the snappish, vaguely threatening tone she’d adopted for this one. It had been sent in 1852.

She looked at the cabinet again. “What were _all_ Heavenly communications with Aziraphale?”

There was another shiver, and a single glowing rectangle slipped from the topmost drawer. It was a page in that it had writing on it and was a flat rectangle, but the medium it was made out of was almost impossible to parse. It was just… light.

“A directive from the Higher Authority and then a memo to quit chucking miracles around?” Pravuil muttered to herself. “Odd choices. Very narrow communications.”

The directive listed Aziraphale as the Angel of the Eastern Gate, and then noted that his original assignment of guarding the Tree of Knowledge was now changed to foiling the plots of the Enemy on Earth. There was a more ordinary piece of paper clipped to the directive that listed him as the recipient of a flaming sword, too. 

“And all the rest of this is receipts,” Pravuil said. “Un-blessed-believable. He hasn’t even submitted body replacement paperwork? Six thousand years without a discorporation is a very good run. And he’s still sending in hardcopies for his miracles. Bit backwards, that. Hm.”

There wasn’t any reason to bring this to Heaven’s attention, really. Pravuil had her job and it was slipping into obsolescence. Digging around in the back records wasn’t necessary—she’d just been curious about this neatly-ordered receipt backlog. She checked the last receipt and raised an eyebrow at the extent and depth to which Aziraphale had fixed that woman’s bicycle. It seemed the request to cool it with frivolous miracles had been ignored.

Pravuil thought for a moment, picked up the filing cabinet again, and forced it, with some effort, _into_ her new computer. The screen rippled uneasily for a while, then smoothed to calmness once again. When she tapped her way into the records section of the computer, typing one letter at a time with her tongue between her teeth, Aziraphale’s name popped up, and then a scrolling list of his many miracle receipts. She smiled at it with satisfaction and then turned back to her miles and miles of dingy, cluttered shelves. Updating and maintaining records could be just as vital as physically creating them. There were so many more files lurking here, and now that she knew she could physically, forcibly input them into the system, her purpose felt comfortable again. She had a lot of work to do, and an eternity to complete it. All was right in Pravuil’s world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyoh! My endnotes are citations, don't worry about them.
> 
> According to Wikipedia: In Islamic tradition the two _kiraman katibin_ (Arabic: كراماً كاتبين "honourable scribes"), are two angels called Raqib and Atid, believed by Muslims to record a person's actions. One angel figuratively sits on the right shoulder and records all good deeds, while the other sits on the left shoulder and records all bad deeds.
> 
> Pravuil is mentioned in the Secrets of Enoch as a recording angel, and that's as far as I read on Wikipedia.
> 
> The 'location-based sin reports' are a reference to Sodom and Gomorrah.
> 
> I'm working from the angel hierarchy that lists 9 orders of angels: **(First Sphere)** Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones; **(Second Sphere)** Dominions or Lordships, Virtues or Strongholds, Powers or Authorities; and **(Third Sphere)** Principalities or Rulers, Archangels, Angels (including personal guardian angels).
> 
> A _cinquedea_ is a cool Italian dagger.
> 
> I don't know why I picked hockey as a thing Pravuil liked. I barely did a cursory google to determine what the points are called. I read Check, Please! I should know this.
> 
> I mistyped 'she' earlier and liked it as a name, so Seh has no precedent in angels in the bible or anything. All other angel (and, in the next chapter, demon) names were found on Wikipedia lists and picked because I liked the sound. A few of them I liked their function and appearance, too. Gosh, these lists are fun!
> 
> Kochab's jeogori and chima are components of the hanbok outfit.
> 
> Hiccup told me she wishes digitization were as easy as stuffing a filing cabinet into your monitor screen. Her exact words were "omg I WISH digitisation was that easy, can this be the new way of digitising things, no more scanners we THINK documents into the computer and they're even SEARCHABLE PDFS with a UNIFORM CATALOGING SYSTEM and NO DUPLICATE RECORDS." She's studying library science and I'm very proud of her. Me, a person who thought long and hard about Naruto tax law and wrote a brief fic about it a couple years ago. We are well-matched for considering how to track boring details in fictional universes.


	2. Hell

The overhead lights buzzed with bad fluorescent tubing and with flies and beetles in their death throes. The smell was brimstone and mold, in alternating belches from the rattling ducts. Sometimes, there was a hint of Axe bodyspray. Sometimes, there was rot. Hallways led to rooms that branched into further hallways. Files were misfiled. No one took responsibility for the ringing phones unless they were expecting a call. The colors were dark, the clothes were stained, demons staggered around broken-down vending machines and slick puddles without adequate warning, and building-wide announcements over the loudspeaker cut through all thought and conversation. The watercoolers burbled and spat slime. The coffee was sludge, burnt and thick and sulfurous. An improper rollout meant that some demons had boxy, plastic computers, some had lead-weight laptops, some had crooked typewriters, and some were still handwriting as best they could with gnawed pencils and leaking pens. 

It was another day in Hell. The hours were always. The benefits package was an aching, oozing, itching, shuddering, bleeding, buzzing, wailing, hissing, burning, dripping sort of immortality. The work was unpaid, except in an exertion of malice. No one here wanted to be in Hell’s main office, but no one would have taken the shining hallways and glittering smiles of angels, either. 

Ose, the Abhorrent Mouth of Mind, scratched at the leopard’s paw sunk into the back of his head. It made the claws ripple against the skin of his neck, and he eased off when they threatened to tear into him. It served its purpose of waking him up, though. He was behind on completing this month’s temptation reports—he was _always_ behind—and he still had the most annoying ones to sort.

“All right, next in line, step up,” he sighed. There was a generalized shuffling in the switchbacking maze of demons here to report on their temptations for the year. The next one in line sauntered over, grin wide under his dark glasses.

“Ah, fuck,” Ose said.

“Heya, Ose! How’ve you been?”

“Thought you’d got reassigned or something,” Ose growled. “Haven’t seen you in centuries.”

“Well, I was sleeping for a lot of it,” Crowley said. “14th century seemed a bit shit. Thought I’d pass the time till humans came up with something interesting.”

“What was it that did it for you?”

“Printing press, really. It’s an opportunity to spread some nasty ideas to these humans. Great invention. I was working hard for a few years here and there, though,” Crowley added quickly. “The, you know, making the longbow. Some stuff with the Black Death. Wore myself out too early.”

“Yeah?” Ose was impressed in spite of himself. He chewed his lip for a moment, feeling his incisors rip into the flesh, and then admitted, “The plague thing was great. All folks could talk about in the break room for years. That was you?”

Crowley gave a smug-yet-modest shrug. “Well, a bit. I helped it along. Part of a team effort, and you know I’d never take credit for one of the Four’s work, really.”

Morax leaned around the partition between their desk and Ose’s and said, “Nah, mate, the plague was all right but the longbow was a bit of genius there. Such an efficient way to make humans dead. Plus, we got a rude gesture out of it! Those ill-wishing points add up against a soul. Did you get a commendation from Head Office?”

“Oh, nah, nah.” Crowley waved the praise off. “The report was late, you know.”

“The reports are always late,” Morax sighed, shaking their head. The smear of snails covering their scalp drew their eyes in close so they wouldn’t be tossed around.

“Fuck off and finish them, then,” Ose snarled, showing his fangs. Morax ducked back around the partition quickly. He heard them mutter, “Asshole.”

“Rough day?” Crowley said sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Ose said.

Crowley leaned on the edge of Ose’s desk, bringing their faces closer. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta deal with shitheads like you. Gimmie your temptations.” He jiggled his computer’s mouse but the screensaver—one of those bouncing-off-the-walls things that never managed to hit the corner of the screen—didn’t vanish. It froze, instead. Ose started up a low, subvocal growl. He tapped at a few of the sticky, oil-covered keys on his keyboard. No response. “Ah, Satan damn it.”

Crowley hissed in sympathy, then had to casually wipe his mouth in order to stop himself hissing. “Give it a second, it’ll probably—”

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Ose snapped. “It’s _slow_.”

“How’s the WiFi down here?”

Ose gave Crowley a suspicious look. “The hell’s a why fly?”

Crowley winced. “I’ll, uh. I can send in a hard copy of my report?”

Ose snorted and jerked a thumb at the stacks of paper behind him that were still waiting to be filed. “Yeah, just dump it in the queue? Make one of the data entry demons do it in a hundred years? That’s all Allu is good for these days, what with the sleep aids people have. Can’t get in human heads to give ‘em nightmares if they’re drugged up, and it doesn’t have ears or a mouth so it can’t work the desk.”

“Melatonin’s the rage right now, actually.” 

“What?”

“The humans’re all caught up in the power of melatonin as a natural sleep aid.”

Ose growled in thought, tapping a tooth. “That’s pretty good news. Maybe Allu can give it a go again. I know it’s been a bit down since it can’t— Ah!” He wiggled the mouse again frantically, checking where it was on the suddenly woken screen. “All right, tell me your temptations for the month.”

Crowley’s toothy smile looked a bit forced. “Great. Um. Well, if you don’t know what WiFi is, this is going to be difficult.”

“What is it?”

“Wireless free internet.”

Ose nodded slowly. “Internet,” he said. “And it’s free. And you don’t have to be hooked into wires for it.”

“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

“Internet, yes. What did you do to it?”

“I asked some of the demons of gluttony and sloth to hop on some of the signals and slow them down between the hours of six and eleven at night on weekdays.”

It took Ose a long time to type that out, one letter at a time. He went back and added a couple of spaces, then stared at the sentence blankly. Finally, he asked, “Purpose?”

Crowley looked up from a game he was playing on his small, thin smartphone. “Video buffering,” he said.

Ose’s expression didn’t change.

“It took Netflix twice as long to load, right at a time when people wanted to access it.”

Ose continued to stare. He said, “Net. Flicks.”

“People couldn’t watch movies and TV shows when they wanted to.”

Ose looked at his screen. “I have bubbles you can choose from.”

It was Crowley’s turn to look blank. “Bubbles?”

“Bubbles. There’s categories.”

“Ohhhh, a form! Sure, what are the categories?”

Ose slid open a drawer and checked the printed list he’d generated for his own reference. “All right, does your… Net Flicks stunt fall under the category of tempting someone to addiction, anger, apathy, blackmail, blasphemy, sey— hm. Kai-ber bullying?”

“It’s anger, I think, but may I see the list?”

Ose glared at him, then tore the list out of the drawer and passed it over without another word.

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and skimmed the list. “Ah, cyberbullying.”

“Sigh-ber bullying.”

“Bullying over the internet.”

Ose shrugged.

Crowley returned to the list, muttering to himself. “Discord, distraction, envy, greed, lawbreaking, lust, lying, melancholy, murder, neglect, polluting, prejudice, pride, violence. Yeah, all right, mine falls under ‘anger.’ Mass anger. Definitely more than a couple hundred victims. Your department really needs to up the numbers, we’re seeing some major inflation rates if you do it right. I am, anyway.” He grinned, all teeth.

Ose wiggled the mouse and clicked the little bubble next to ‘Anger - mass (over 200)’ on his screen. He gave Crowley a blank look. “That all?”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose above the rims of his sunglasses. “Oh. Uh. Hm. I sowed some discord—”

“Victim?” Ose moused over the ‘Discord’ category, waiting.

“A, a few people. Couple folks. I took an heirloom from a witch, she won’t like that.”

“Witch, eh? Not a wiccan, right? Easy to mix up.”

“I remember witches when England was burning them, Ose. I know a witch when I meet her.”

“Right, and you think that’s discord, not melancholy?”

“She didn’t seem that type of witch.”

“So your _intent_ was discord?”

Crowley opened and shut his mouth for a moment. “Y-yes. Yes, it was.”

“Intended sphere of influence?”

“Oh, she’s in a smallish village so, ah, probably widespread at the most.”

Ose gave him a disbelieving look and clicked on the ‘Discord - group (2-19).’ Crowley couldn’t see the screen but his mouth had a bitter, downturned twist to it.

“Anything else?” Ose asked.

“Oh, got in touch with a witchfinder—”

“You’re a bit witch-fixated these days, eh?”

Crowley ignored the interruption. “So that’ll be ‘Violence, group’ I think.”

Ose clicked the bubble under ‘Violence - group (2-19).’

“And I reckon that’s it for now. Can you get an email system set up already? I’d like to just send these in as they happen, it’s hard to track between visits.”

“Eee mail?”

Crowley heaved a huge breath. “Right, never mind, forget I asked. Good to catch up, it’s been a while Have a nice— Have a fucking _awful_ rest of eternity, Ose.”

“Same to you, Crowley. See you in a few decades.”

“Mmm.” Crowley stalked off with the wobbling, weaving walk of his. Privately, Ose thought he’d never learned to navigate his pelvis correctly, even though he’d had thousands of years in a human-shaped body to work on it. 

Ose closed the temptation file on Crowley and, a split second later, remembered he should have saved it first. “Fuck!” He contemplated trying to remember the shit Crowley had told him, then dismissed it—he had better things to do with his time. He glowered at the head of the endless line and roared, “Next!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Wikipedia came through for me on demon names. Ose is a demon described by Alistair Crowley and depicted as a leopard that after a while changes into a man. His name seems to derive from Latin 'os', _mouth, language_ , or 'osor', _that who abhors_.
> 
> I... I did a full breakdown of the categories you can use for temptations. Hic helped and reaffirmed how granular I got, cuz it's nice to be able to track some stats. For everyone else who loves to overthink, here are the temptation cateories as assigned by Hell in this the year of the lord 2019:
> 
>  **Addiction:** Addiction - self-abuse. Addiction - group (2-19). Addiction - widespread (20-199). Addiction - mass (over 200).  
>  **Anger:** Anger - self-abuse. Anger - single actor. Anger - group (2-19). Anger - widespread (20-199). Anger - mass (over 200). Anger - passive aggression.  
>  **Apathy/Sloth:** Apathy/Sloth - self-abuse. Apathy/Sloth - group (2-19). Apathy/Sloth - widespread (20-199). Apathy/Sloth - mass (over 200). Apathy/Sloth - ignorance.  
>  **Blackmail:** Blackmail - single victim. Blackmail - group (2-19). Blackmail - widespread (20-199). Blackmail - mass (over 200).  
>  **Blasphemy:** Blasphemy - single victim. Blasphemy - group (2-19). Blasphemy - widespread (20-199). Blasphemy - mass (over 200).  
>  **Cyberbullying:** Cyberbullying - single victim. Cyberbullying - group (2-19). Cyberbullying - widespread (20-199). Cyberbullying - mass (over 200). Cyberbullying - sexual (see Lust).  
>  **Discord:** Discord - single actor. Discord - group (2-19). Discord - widespread (20-199). Discord - mass (over 200).  
>  **Distraction:** Distraction - avoiding others. Distraction - avoiding activity. Distraction - texting, neglecting single actor. Distraction, texting while driving.  
>  **Envy:** Envy - single actor. Envy - group (2-19). Envy - widespread (20-199). Envy - mass (over 200).  
>  **Gluttony:** Gluttony - single actor. Gluttony - group (2-19). Gluttony - widespread (20-199). Gluttony - mass (over 200). Gluttony - foodie.  
>  **Greed:** Greed - single actor. Greed - group (2-19). Greed - widespread (20-199). Greed - mass (over 200).  
>  **Lawbreaking:** Lawbreaking - misdemeanor. Lawbreaking - felony. Lawbreaking - infraction.  
>  **Lust:** Lust - self-abuse. Lust - single object of desire. Lust - group (2-19). Lust - widespread (20-199). Lust - mass (over 200). Lust - harmful (minor, animal, unwilling participant).  
>  **Lying/Fraud:** Lying/Fraud - white lie, self-justified. Lying/Fraud - single victim. Lying/Fraud - group (2-19). Lying/Fraud - widespread (20-199). Lying/Fraud - mass (over 200).  
>  **Melancholy:** Melancholy - self-abuse. Melancholy - group (2-19). Melancholy - widespread (20-199). Melancholy - mass (over 200).  
>  **Murder:** Murder - negligence. Murder - premeditated. Murder - self-justified. Murder - mass (over 100). Murder - genocide (see Racism - mass).  
>  **Neglect:** Neglect - animal. Neglect - child. Neglect - self. Neglect - social issue. Neglect - medical.  
>  **Pollution:** Pollution - under 10 lb. Pollution - 10 lb. and over. Pollution - radioactive. Pollution - gas. Pollution - ocean. Pollution - noise. Pollution - light.  
>  **Prejudice:** Prejudice - racial. Prejudice - gendered. Prejudice - sexuality. Prejudice - religious. Prejudice - socioeconomic. Prejudice - philosophical. Prejudice - education. Prejudice - health/ability. Prejudice - appearance. Prejudice - age. Prejudice - national/geographical.  
>  **Pride:** Pride - single actor. Pride - group (2-19). Pride - widespread (20-199). Pride - mass (over 200).  
>  **Violence:** Violence - sexual. Violence - personal. Violence - impersonal. Violence - animal victim. Violence - motivated by prejudice (see Prejudice). Violence - inanimate object victim. Violence - verbal, single victim. Violence - verbal, group (2-19). Violence - verbal, widespread (20-199). Violence - verbal, mass (over 200).


End file.
